Inheritance
by Virodeil
Summary: (AU Book-verse, AU Rey-verse.) Murtagh was saved from the Twins before his hell-on-earth ever began, but by whom and for what purpose? Nobody would guess…
1. Rescued?

Inheritance  
By: Virodeil

AU. Murtagh was saved from the Twins before his hell-on-earth ever began, but by whom and for what purpose? Nobody would guess…

Story Notes:  
1. This story is maybe _far_ different from my usual pieces in terms of simplicity and _lack_ of quality. This was only a passing thought one Sunday, just before the torture that is my translation project ever began, which unfortunately germinated quickly and firmly into a deep-rooted story. It was designed to be short and light and uncomplicated and able to be worked at during these terribly-hectic six months, but still in Rey-verse.  
2. No character bashing, as far as I can help it. But the writing may look slanted that way, especially when it comes to the protagonists of _The Inheritance Cycle_. I cannot really filter whatever is inside my head right now, so neither polishing nor downplaying will happen in this story, which I usually did before, hence people may look shallower than in my other pieces. I simply cannot put much thought into this when I am already overloaded with RL work.  
3. I'm not a native speaker of English here, and I use a screen reader which doesn't tell me much too, so I would like to apologise in advance for any mishap I accidentally create language-wise, since I won't have enough time to edit, given the stress level I'm currently under. Dialogue markers, in case I use other languages, will be put on the header of the respective chapter, but otherwise you can assume it's all English, or Alagaësian equivalent of English. Update is every two weeks if I can help it, by the way, in 500-word format. It's kind of a reward for myself to write anything but things related to work in that time, actually.  
4. I love family and friendship interactions, I love 'cuddly fluffs', I love turning things upside-down, so expect things like those here instead of heavy action, complicated adventures etc. This is my escape from RL, since my other pieces, however light they are, are too heavy to achieve in my current situation. They won't be abandoned, but I won't work on them maybe till December. There will be little hint or warning on each chapter though, if even any; and again, advanced apology for that.  
5. Review, flame, do anything all you wish. I might not be able to answer reviews (if there is any) or the answer might be short, but be assured that such appreciation ( _high_ appreciation, to me) don't escape me. The RL work makes me check my inbox regularly, so it'd be quite heartening if I saw some mail alert from FFN for this story.  
6. _(Additional Information)_ Someone ever said that I love to link up all and every person in the book together in various kinds of relationships, usually familial and friendship, entirely too much. I cannot deny that. I just wished to have something sneaking round under the surface like mushrooms under the earth, and got this as the result. I'm not ashamed of it, either, but if you don't like it, best don't read it. There will be huge controversies regarding Rey-verse too in this story, mainly regarding Morzan and Brom and regarding Morzan and Selena; but those, we'll just see later. I do hope you'll still enjoy the story though.

Chapter 1: Rescued?

I was so cocky, so confident in myself.

"The King is going to be so pleased yet displeased with you."

The oily purr sickens me, but the implication of the words terrifies me. Worse, he _knows_ that, judging by how he and his twin keep goding me these two days.

"You shall _feel_ it in less than a month if we have our way, my dear, and then we shall reap our reward at last."

 _That_ is what I fear, and he _knows_ that, keeps reminding me that, keeps torturing me in lieu of the King's ministrations.

Torture, while I can do nothing to escape it, to avoid it, to fight against it; tied down, caged, _completely_ under the nonexistent mercy of a powerful, cruel madman…

A deep, deep chill that has nothing to do with his gleeful cackle invades my marrows. The words are not just an empty threat, even the estimated time of this hellish trip, I _know_ that, having travelled every wretched mile with Eragon and Saphira only two months ago. And to think that, _two days_ have now passed, just less than two fortnights more until…

I gulp.

Visibly, maybe, because then the foul demon, with glinting eyes and leering lips, purrs, "You ought to have thought twice before betraying the King, then."

I glare at the bald-headed, purple-garbed, traitorous, sneering madman. But as exhausted and starving and in thirst and in pain and in fear as I am, the glare might be only as potant as a mere bleary stare.

It proves true, again: He laughs mockingly at me.

A moment after, with a sickly-sweet murmured word, my left index finger breaks, joining the four others he and his twin have broken alternatedly unhealed these couple of days. Like in the previous occurances, he tries to enter my mind at the same time; though like others, the attempt is thankfully in vain.

But still, it leaves a horrible pain in my head, in addition to the breaks those two traitors put on various parts of my body these two days. I know better than to curse them after crying out from the pain, however, since it left me with literally-sealed lips for the whole day yesterday.

"I do not appreciate cheek from anybody, most especially _you_ , boy. The King will soon teach it out of you, I do hope."

It is _not_ in my nature and nurture to back down, however, especially from such insulting, sickening, life-threatening pair of yellow-bellied bastards of some forgotten evil god, most especially when any of them takes such a maddening tone. I paid the price yesterday, and today as well, yet it still feels too unbearable not to fight back.

So I do. I glare again at him.

And in the next moment, with another calmly-spoken word whispered gleefully in my ear, I can no longer see, with throbbing eye area to boot as though he had given me a pair of black eyes.

"You bas–!"

And, as guaranteed by sheer repetition and continuation, my lips are sealed again.

"Mmph!" Panic, horror, hatred, fury, and a sundry other emotions attack me all at once. Cold sweat begins to reach out to my skin from the depths of my marrow, it feels. I struggle fiercely against the bond, yelling as best as I can with all my might. This is _worse_ than ever, nearly a month early, and I cannot escape, cannot avoid it – and it is just _one_ twin; how about when _both_ are here?

The thought terrifies me, to my shame. But I cannot prevent it, and cannot prevent myself from struggling fiercer as well.

"Such a delight, to have Morzan's son in our mercy, _at last_ ," the madman purrs, chuckling sensuously. "Payback time, eh? We shall see what my brother thinks of this when he's back from his foraging. Maybe he'd like to add some… flare, on this _living_ picture?"

Everything from the top of my head down to my toes _hurts_ on that.

It is truly, _really_ , really sick of the King to extend his torturing hands via these slimy monsters, instead of waiting to do it once we have inevitably arrived at Urú'baen. I _hate_ tortures, who does not, but this is really…!

And worse, nobody came to search for me, let alone help me escape, especially when we were still within range of Beor Mountains, which was two mornings ago.

The first set of people that I could consider almost family since the death of my real family, and they did not take long to abandon me.

As harsh as ré'a had been half of the time to me, he had still been my father in name and half in deed, and he had never abandoned me to fend for myself.

But Ré'a is dead.

And still, nobody would see me as I am, including these worms and the King. Réa is _dead_! I am _not_ he! I–

Another jabbing hit at my _broken_ left shin.

Now a pair of gleeful cackles above me on my unavoidable scream, muffled by my sealed lips, instead of only one. Great… the other just-as-foul half has returned, and that must have been his 'greeting'. What did I deserve it for?!

But oddly, this time, something in the endless sequence of hurting and gloating is different.

The screams of those damned nameless twins follow right after mine, and I can feel the tremor of the cold packed earth as they fall. I wish I could see, I wish one of them did not put huge black eyes so 'nicely' on both of my eyes, but this is already incredible.

Are their attackers agents of the Varden?

But if they were bandits or slavers…?

Something soft – a hand? – touches the side of my head gently, then moves to my unshaven cheek, and down to my also-unshaven chin. I jerk away.

But the hand persists, though I hear no sound from its owner.

No, this _cannot_ be an agent of the Varden, nor especially bandits, let alone slavers. Nobody would do that to me, save for Mother, and – sometimes – Ré'a.

My tongue feels too thick to form any proper word, in addition to my sealed lips. Those treacherous bastards have given me no drop of water – not to mention food – whatsoever since the morning three days ago, claiming that their rations were running out. If only I could speak; I dearly wish to demand who is so forwardly still stroking my hair and the side of my face.

I try to open my mouth, still, by sheer determination.

It doesn't work. I can only let out a muffled cry at that.

But it might attract the attention of my stroker, since, with the trailing of one slim finger along the chapped line of my lips, my mouth can open once more.

Still, instead of words coming out, something else instead trickles in, something _heavenly_.

Water, cool sweet water.

My tormenters are still screaming out intermittently, maybe in fear, maybe in pain, but I can care less about them right now. The water, trickled so slowly and patiently into my unaccustomed, swollen mouth, is so fresh, so sweet, so great for my partched throat, so…

Fulfilling?

Wait…

Erh, how can such a small amount of water fill my belly like a full meal?

Now I truly wish I could open my eyes and look at my feeder.

Why did I just willingly drink, anyhow? What is wrong with me?

The screams of the Twins abruptly cut off.

Everything falls silent.

My feeder no longer gives me water, no longer touches my head.

I feel even more confused and incredulous than before, even more curious.

Even more yearning for what was.

But what now?


	2. Desolate

Inheritance  
By Virodeil

AU. Murtagh was saved from the Twins before his hell-on-earth ever began, but by whom and for what purpose? Nobody would guess…

Chapter 2: Desolate

It feels like a dream, a surreal waking dream.

I am carried in a piggy-back ride, after I have been put in this state of unfeeling reality, this waking dream, after _all_ of the aches and pains went away. I had only ever seen other children treated so, never myself, after I was removed to the palace like a sack of flour, before this.

I know I am switched from back to back regularly, each after I have just gotten a general grasp of my carrier's identity through bleary senses of smell and touch and feeling alone; each done gently – almost gingerly – as though I were a fragile, priceless rare artefact; but I strangely do not feel used, do not feel as if just an item. It even feels natural to me, down to recognising people by feel and touch and smell and gait and timbre of voice alone. However, I do not know how many people have carried me so far – I do not care, about that, about anything.

A woman who never carries me but stays always by my current carrier, ready with a sip of the fulfilling water any time. Coaxing, somewhat motherly, but strangely not condescending or cloying. A nice-flowery-smelling woman.

A man who seems to share a deep bond with the aforementioned woman, who at times sneaks what feels and tastes like honey into my mouth when others are busy. Chirpy, open-minded, curious, eager, realistic, sensitive to emotions, unlike other males that I have ever known. Scenting like woods, he carries me the most.

Maybe another man, but with a cat-hissing quality to his voice, who often approaches me just to rub the top of my head with not-quite-human hands. Furry, somehow, smelling odd as well, but no evil intention towards me from what I sense from him. And inexplicably, he seems to be linked rather closely to the aforementioned man.

A woman like the aforementioned man: furry, smelling just as odd but this time inciting my baser instincts as a male, though thankfully she carries me the rarest. She does not seem to mind though, and just as kind to me as the furry man is, and the woody man who seems to be the elder brother of the furry man.

A man somehow younger but older than the others, cheerful despite the pain of loss lingering after so long. Food smell, enticing, reminding me of a forgotten memory that sadly cannot be teased to the front of my mind. My rides with him are the most joyous, maybe partly because he then gives me something liquid other than the first fulfilling water that I have often tasted.

A stately-sounding, stately-feeling, subdued-scenting woman with the soft caresses that I remember from my first ever benign contact after my torture. She speaks to me though I cannot answer, and partly would not answer. She speaks to me in a low, captivating, sing-song voice, in another tongue softer and more mesmerising than the Ancient Language. And surprisingly, I could understand half of what she says: things long forgotten: meadows, lakes, fields, wide open skies, challenging seas…

My body and mind feels healed, but oddly I feel so, so exhausted and sleepy and barely aware all the time. I feel… content, with no sense of embarrassment, as I am spoon-fed heavenly-tasting soups and fresh, cleansing water, as I am washed from head to toe and cradled by gentle hands amidst the sound and feel of cool gurgling water and the freshening scent of pine needles.

I have simply forgotten what pained me, what distressed me, what made me long for oblivion. They are there, on the back of my mind, like a threateningly-low-hanging black storm-cloud, but I pay no attention to it. This state does not allow me to invite those negative feelings inside, especially after, softly but smoothly, sweet high-pitched melodies from I do not know what float into my blurred awareness.

I am in peace, for maybe the first time in my life.

I do not wish to wake up again, to face whatever cruel designs reality has in store for me.

But I am now laid down on something soft and springy, wrapped snugly by something soft and warm, left _alone_.

Alone, after so long in constant intimate company, one that I never felt for years already, one that I never knew that I longed for so fiercely.

I rebel, reach out with all my senses, all my might, all means possible. Do not leave me _alone_!

I struggle, try to escape the binding, try to open my eyes, try to open my mouth, try to–

"Amú?"

Soft, gently commanding, lilting, intimate.

 _Familiar._

My eyes open wide in shock.

"Ré'a?"

Spontaneous, hopeful, oh so hopeful, yearning for a father that I took for granted in my early childhood, even if he was not a father for me half of the times, even if I could never get my mother back: wild hope, wild expectations.

My eyes meet those of deep dark blue, shining as if starlight is stored within, deep with knowledge of ages past.

No human's eyes shine like that.

Not Ré'a; not my father, let alone my mother.

My throat closes up. Not Ré'a. Only Ré'a called me so. Mother always called me just "Child," as far as I remember.

Not Ré'a, here. Never Ré'a, Ré'a is dead, Mother too.

This stranger is _not_ allowed to replace Ré'a, _no_.

A dagger jabs into my heart and twists viciously round and round it, it feels. My chest feels both restricted and about to explode. He is _nobody_ , he may _not_ use that name–

I am _nobody_ –

I am – this is just a _dream_.

Just a dream, everything is, just a dream.

I am alone, always alone.

My eyes close back up, my mouth as well. Not Ré'a: I shall not answer, shall not see _him_ , shall say nothing; _he_ is _not_ my father, no right to call me so, to command me so.

But _he_ dares to _chuckle_ at me, in mirth it seems. Mocking me?

Ré'a never laughed at me, even when I waited for him all day in the front hall when I heard tidings that he was going to come home. Mother never laughed at me when I showed her whatever I could draw at that time when she visited me.

But they are dead, irretrievably, and nobody shall ever replace them.

I am alone.


	3. Alien

Inheritance  
By Virodeil

AU. Murtagh was saved from the Twins before his hell-on-earth ever began, but by whom and for what purpose? Nobody would guess…

Chapter 3: Alien

"Amú, do you wish for some water?" A man, maybe, though there is a cat-hissing quality to it, and he smells a little odd.

"Amú, see? You might like this pebble. Your father loved unique common things like this so much, at any rate." Another funny-smelling, funny-sounding person, female this time.

"Amú, have you ever tried something called chocolate? One of the Shur'tugalar brought it from one of her travels for me, and I have been loving it ever since. Do you wish to try some warm drink made with it?" A male, equally cheerful but more subdued.

"Amú, do you like any kind of flower? Would you like to see me sing it into another colour? Your father did not like it very much, though he does like flowers, but maybe you do?" A stately-sounding female, though somehow it does not lower her spirited chirpy words.

"I am not sure if you would content yourself listening to me prattle about history." Another stately-sounding female, though her voice seems subdued for a slightly-different reason, cut off short by a self-amused chortle, then, "I do have stores of funny tales though, including many about my irksome spouse over here, or even about your father and his sort-of twin brother."

"Amú, open your mouth, please? Even if you do not wish to open your eyes? You need to eat some, so that you can recover quicker." Coaxing, somewhat motherly, but strangely not condescending or cloying, coming from a nice-flowery-smelling female to the right.

"Do not mind stuffy old Yaela," yet another voice quickly cuts in, male, chirping away from the left. "I have a pot of my special honey here, harvested by my own hands after a long nurture. Your father said that you loved it so much. He even had one pot of it when he was visiting here with you that one time." His voice turns subdued then, though still sounding sincere, as if the rememberance of the visit grieves him terribly. "Would you like some now? You do not even need to open your eyes for that."

It is wrong, _all_ wrong.

They are still the same individuals who took care of me when I was delirious and far weaker than this. I still remember each of their timbre, scent and quirks, and I cannot note any false sweetness from them either, but all of them are acting overly sweet to me indeed. I am not a five-year-old! I am a total stranger to them and vice versa, as well!

And worse, my _father_.

I… My father… It is simply _unbelieveable_.

They have been talking about my father as if he were a dearly-loved, oft-seen, even somewhat-spoiled close relative. Not a murderer, not a monster, not a slaughterer; not a prince, not a commander, not the King's right-hand man, not a Dragon Rider even. It is… It is…

 _Why?_

I am still lying inside the cocoon they made from whatever soft, squishy, comfortable material this is, shoeless, no longer in my first set of clothes either, still with eyes and lips firmly closed, but they do not seem to mind. In fact, if I would hazard a guess, they seem to be familiar with such a gesture of silent protest and relish it in a peculiar way. It is all _mad_. They are all _mad_.

Or maybe, I have finally snapped loose from all restraints and common sense from all the torture and vile words those two monsters plied me with.

How not? If they know of my father, why do they not hate me in turn, like some people in the palace and the Varden? And if they are indeed elves, should they not be hateful towards the Forsworn, including my father? I got the impression from that elf-woman that she did not seem to appreciate being saved by the son of a Forsworn Rider.

Well, Eragon certainly did not save her.

He did not save me either…

No, no, _no_. Too painful, no, too raw still.

I shift, feel my brow scrunch up as the response to the inner discomfort that cannot be quickly chased away.

The chirpy, coaxing words stop just so.

I wish I did it sooner, then.

But now, as the silence stretches further, I come to despise it: so eerie, so uncertain.

I shift again, even more discomfited, even more unnerved.

And just like before, they respond to it, like attentive caretakers.

I am dragged into encircling arms, blanket and all, leaning up against the strong-but-narrow upper body of a man unlike my father's.

Somebody else tweaks the tip of my nose playfully, then the scent of rich honey wafts up my nostrils in a tantalising manner.

"Do not tease him so," the motherly-toned woman who wanted me to eat rebukes the culprit.

"Well, I need to smoothe his frown with this," comes the cheeky reply from quite nearby. "Maybe capture a smile or two, at that."

Others begin to speak up again, warmer and more open even than before, though in another language entirely, one that I seem to remember from my early childhood and just recently with that stately woman, as I can recognise words like "eat," "drink," "play," "him," "her," "you," "go," and "father."

It is as though I were a small child again, but different, and… I… It is all so _strange_ , unreal, dreamlike, even though I am far more awake and aware of the details of my surroundings now.

I… _Argh!_


	4. Innocence

Inheritance  
By Virodeil

AU. Murtagh was saved from the Twins before his hell-on-earth ever began, but by whom and for what purpose? Nobody would guess…

Note on human to elf aging standard, Rey-verse: (elf, then human)  
1 = 1  
5 = 2  
10 = 5  
15 = 6-7  
20 = 7-8  
30 = 10-11  
50 = 15  
70 = 16  
100 = 17-18  
300 = 20-21  
500 = 25-30  
(Please note: The human age comparison is more about the standard, rather than exact age, and here the modern standard is used.)

Chapter Notes: Thank you for Ruon Jian for pointing this matter: In Rey-verse, a human Dragon Rider ages far slower than an ordinary human, especially the younger he or she is when firstly becoming a Rider. (So, say, one who becomes a Rider at the acceptable age of 10 has different growth and development to one who becomes a Rider at the age of 15 or 8.) An elf looks at years differently than a human too, so 30 years to an elf or other long-lived beings are not the same as the same number for a human. Please pardon the confusion in this chapter and maybe the next ones.

Chapter 4: Innocence

From a not-so-large sheet of rectangle, shiny, cool-to-the-touch metal, a small child stares at me with gently-laughing eyes. The said child is seated comfortably in the lap of somebody who cannot be seen on the all-too-lifelike picture, hugging a wooden tub which covers the front of the tiny, slim body from lap to shoulders with arms and legs. From the look alone, I cannot ascertain whether the child is a she or a he, neither the age.

But I cannot forget the eyes.

Like everything in the picture, far more lifelike than most of the drawings and tapestries I have ever seen in the palace, the eyes are done perfectly to the smallest detail.

Too perfectly.

The left large and black, the right small and blue.

But those eyes never laughed, in all my memory; neither at me, nor especially _with_ me.

But the child, _he_ looks so content, so at peace, so _gleeful_ even, though in a much more muted sort of way than the looks I was used to see in or around the palace, or during my travels.

Here, he looks vulnerable, childlike, even if he were not hugging a tub of something all to himself and licking something from the tips of his left fingers, even if he were not so cosily seated in somebody's lap, a feat I never acquited with him, even if he did not look so happy in his own way.

If I met _this_ child, to be honest to myself, I would have at least smiled at him, sharing the laughter trapped in those shining mismatched eyes, which in this picture looks out at the world earnestly, unjudgingly, _innocently_. Oh, he looks less open than other children I ever encountered before, and those eyes seem to have seen too much sorrow and burden for one looking so young, but _still_.

I raise a hand, aiming a finger at the not-so-lean, not-so-high cheek, but then hesitate; not because I am worried of besmirching the picture, no, but because, somehow, I am afraid of his wrath.

Twenty years old, and still afraid, very much afraid.

The eyes were listless, nearly lifeless, clouded with hysteria and desperation, the last time I saw him alive, before he departed home and never returned. Before that, he had rarely looked at me too, and each occasion had always made me think that he was displeased to be in the same room with me, despite other signs.

The flash in those eyes never signified humour like the child in here, the child whom I would never connect to the father I knew were it not for his black hair, general look, mismatched black-and-blue eyes, the stub of the right pointer finger displayed for all the world to see as the child's right arm winds round a third of the tub, and the pair of toeless, misshapen feet similarly propped at either side of it. The flash, though it rarely happened while I was interacting with him, and always when he was deeply drunk, was always accompanied by snarls and biting remarks on my person.

Once, it even accompanied a searing pain across my back, the wound of which I carry until now.

So – "How?"

I blink.

I never meant to say that aloud.

And why is my voice croaking? These two days, as the seven of us are travelling deeper and deeper into a forest, the Guarding Forest in fact according to my strange, fussy, all-too-loving escorts, I was always coaxed into conversations, usually done in what the said escorts have termed "the old tongue," of which I surprisingly know a decent amount from childhood. So _why_?

My finger trembles, but at last descends on its target, slightly altered from the one before, shakily touching the tiny, fragile-looking right hand placed flat against the dark-brown surface of the wooden container. A lump forms in my throat, and faintly I notice that my breathing has gone a little more ragged. But _why_?

I look away from the picture, retract my hand, curl up into a ball, stare out into the greenish gloom of the nearly-nonexistent path before us. My eyes feel hot, heavy, wet; but why do I mourn? For whom? I was never this sentimental before, not even when I was imprisoned only because of my blood, not even when I was left alone in the prison for a long time, not even when I was abandoned once more in the nonexistent mercy of those purple-robed slimeballs. My relation with Ré'a also could not be termed as father-son relationship, usually, as he more often than not used me like a child would to a doll or stuffed animal when he was home, rarely saying anything to me otherwise, let alone praising me.

From all round me, my escorts stir uneasily, and gloom settles into all of us, though indeed nobody spoke even before Yaela the motherly handed me the picture, also silently. I ignore it; even if I had a choice in it, I would ignore it, ignore them. They bring this unease and gloom into themselves; I did not ask for any picture, did not ask for any story.

I never wished for the maelstrom of emotions to trap me like this, that is why. I… I…

"This fairth was taken when he was twenty years old," comes a soft whisper from my left at length, from the same person who started this all. If I could unwind my hands from each other's clutch to stopper my ears, I would. I do not wish to hear about _anything_ right now, especially about _that_ , about him, about the past in which I was not included, in the past where he was another person entirely, the past whose future might see me eliminated by sheer impossibility.

"Much happened to him," she continues in the same soft tone, regardless of my internal wishes, maybe regardless of her own wishes as well as I detect a slight undercurrent of pain and reluctance in her voice. "But forty years later, he was still similar to the child you saw sitting on Evandar's lap just now, as we managed to shelter him from some of the worst this cruel world offered."

Sixty years. Sixty years of that bliss, never granted onto me. But the leap of fate: Would I endure such if I knew where it would lead in sixty years time? And to make those years all naught but ashes in the wind, laughable in its shortness compared to the more than eighty-odd years spent in the torment I could always see in his eyes, leaving just the man that I knew, what happened? I – _no_ , I shall _not_ pity him! But…?

I shudder.

Hysteria bubbles up in me: confusing, heart-aching, but forceful and inexorable.

But _why_? Why do I care? Why now?

"But some time after he was kidnapped right from his bed in Ilirea, he returned to us, far changed. We mourned him; we mourn, until now."

The child with gently-laughing eyes, licking something from his fingers with relish, hugging a tub half his size and nearly drowning in it, looking at the world earnestly, unjudgingly, innocently.

He is no more. He was no more, from quite a long time ago, from something that I now begin to belatedly perceive as not of his doing, maybe from tortures that might have far eclipse mine in the hand of those slimeballs.

The child with mismatched eyes and stubby finger and misshapen feet, sitting contentedly uncaring about anything but the tub in his current possession, and maybe his living 'throne' as well.

I never met him, only the husk that had used to be him.

The child with gently-laughing eyes, staring at me, like he never did in my life.

Only a picture.

But the arms, the fragile and tiny ones grown large and hard and strong by war and hardships, they still did it, what the little one does in that picture to his beloved tub of most likely sticky treasure of the honey persuasion, the treasure introduced to me early in my childhood by the same fingers. They did it to me, whenever he was home and was not drinking himself to a stupor or a rage.

No, not a picture, not only a picture, in some tiny part, and I _never_ realised it, what a treasure it was, until it was gone.

The elves are wrong, they are wrong, on one tiny account.

I was like a doll, but _his_ doll. No more laughing eyes, no more carefree look, but the arms were still there, the fingers were still there.

And then, everything was ruined, again, with nobody knowing it.

And now, both versions are _far_ out of reach; everything is far too late, all unappreciated.

He is gone, truly gone.

And with that, the dam in my eyes breaks at last.

End notes: Events in _Inheritance_ made this all-too-sappy author believe that Murtagh never got the chance or inclination or both to properly mourn his parents - his mother, let alone his father. Make of this chapter as you wish…


	5. Sunrise

Inheritance  
By Virodeil

AU. Murtagh was saved from the Twins before his hell-on-earth ever began, but by whom and for what purpose? Nobody would guess…

Important Note: Please read the previous chapters, if you would. They have been tweaked. Hopefully they are better by now. Please tell me what you think?

Author's Note: Apologies for the long absence, and the far-from-perfect description of the scene. My brain is too taxed for good descriptions for now, but this no-longer-so-little story has been neglected for too long. I might go back to it later.

Chapter 5: Sunrise

Verdant green eyes, glowing with the morning sun and something else that both comforts and terrifies me, framed with bright golden locks looking like melted gold drenched by the same beam of sunlight, stare at _me_.

It was the first impression that I got from him a moment ago, but it is still all that I can do not to take a step back and raise a nonexistent sword, even though we are separated by a small clearing of more than twenty strides wide. The powerful, loaded stare has not diminish by any degree, that is why, nor does the owner of the stare say any word either in welcome or contempt.

The silence and impassivity of my escorts, spread some steps away behind me, does not help at all. I do not know how many days have passed since my odd rescue from the Twins, or has it in fact been only a couple of days or three, since the sun never showed itself as brilliantly as now; but now, as I am faced with both the silent, green-eyed, golden-haired man garbed in all green and the nearly-alive-feeling morning sun all at once, I wish I had much more time to spend peacefully under the cool shade of the forest with my bemusing, all-too-cocooning escorts.

And then, just as suddenly as his appearance from among the trees in the other side of the not-so-large clearing, he _smiles_ at me; a small arch of the corners of his lips, but looking sincere, definitely given to me, as his eyes, too, if it were even possible, sparkle brighter with more of the warmth and less of the power that I have just sensed of him.

He beckons me forward with a twitch of his outstretched right hand, silently and with minimal movement, eeriely reminding me of Réa. And as memory bleeds into reality, I find myself reflexively stepping forward, crossing the lush little field of wild flowers that separates us.

Nobody follows me.

I only realise it as, with another silent gesture as I stand before him, the man gets me to stand to his left. My seven escorts are still standing across the field, where I was just now, still scattered among the myriad large tree-trunks, looking at us peacefully, or in some cases smiling gently. It is as if they are saying good bye to me…

I open my mouth, but Yaela, the only person whom I know the name of, by indirect introduction at that, the woman whom I now can see as having a soft cast to her features not-so-different from the man standing silently by my side, but with brown eyes and dark silvery hair, puts her little finger to her lips, maybe her way - or perhaps the elven way - of asking me to be silent.

I glare petulantly at her.

She just smiles indulgently, and by now I have come to expect that, if she only smiles without saying anything, I shall get nothing out of her, including explanations and alternate instructions.

I let out a soft sigh and look away.

My feelings about her, and about the others as well, are conflicted, to say the least. I am indeed grateful that they rescued me; but they never told me why they did it in the first place. They have been pampering me like a little beloved prince or a highly-cherished kin ever since they came upon me; but they never even introduced themselves by name or told me who they were, how they know so much of my father and me. We have been in this odd journey for who knows how long, but they seldom spoke to me, and now they are about to–

A soft touch on my right shoulder, from the man beside me. I jerk away.

But not fast enough. Another touch, this time on my chin, and I am directed - still without words - to face the up-climbing early-morning sun peeking among the not-so-tall tree-tops across the field, before the gentle hand returns to my shoulder and stays there.

Powerful rays catch me off-guard, making me blinking owlishly for several moments, but afterwards I cannot help but inhale sharply with appreciation.

It is as if the newly-emerging sun, clear and round and fresh and pure and bright and powerful, is hiding behind the trees, lighting up the dew clinging to the myriad leaves and tiny flowers like millions of brightly-twinkling jewels. The not-so-dense trees are bathed in a strong bright green glow, as if they are, like the sun, also waking up from a nighttime nap.

And before my eyes, as if basking with the unspoken praises but answering it with warmth and dignity instead of scorn or boasting, the disk of strong yellowish-white light slowly but surely detaches itself from behind the tangles of branches and leaves and flowers, lighting up even more trees and the dew that decorates them with fervour and life.

Warmth soaks into me, into my being, as if I were dunking myself in a tub of warm bath and drinking the warm water all at once. Liveliness lights up my muscles, makes me restless, makes me want to spring away and do something; but at the same time contentment suffuses them, filling me with contained power and the confidence that anything is possible.

Just like the morning sun.

Just like the man beside me.

Green eyes, as alive and verdant as the sun-bathed trees, meet my own eyes as I tear my gaze from the mundane view made magical. The tiny smile returns, this time knowing.

And at last, he speaks.

"Welcome to Osilon, son of my brother's son. You might not remember me, nor would you have any reason to remember my name before this, but I am your great-uncle, Elduír."


	6. Green

Inheritance  
By Virodeil

AU. Murtagh was saved from the Twins before his hell-on-earth ever began, but by whom and for what purpose? Nobody would guess…

Important Note: A small-but-big mistake in Chapter 5 has been corrected. Elduír said "son of my brother's son," not "son of my brother-son." As you can see: tiny difference, but big impact. I'm so sorry. I guess this is one of the hazards of writing details quite under duress.

Side Note: Other works related to this one: "Pine Brother" fully, "Poisoned Truths" in part, "Alagaësian Mozaic, Piece 6, When Silence Is Home" in part.

Chapter 6: Green

"Welcome to Osilon, son of my brother's son. You might not remember me, nor would you have any reason to remember my name before this, but I am your great-uncle, Elduír."

I can only gape at the green-eyed, golden-haired stranger before me. But far from taking offence at the discourtesy of gawking and not replying in kind, he instead regards me solemnly, his gaze powerful but veiled, reminding me of late-morning sunlight on the trees in my travels, and continues with maybe the reason to what I have just realised as some kind of ritual: "Elduír, of the House of Sunrise, or Alantra to be proper. My elder brother Evandar and your father Evanzadí happened to be in the same House; but I would welcome you gladly regardless of the House you would choose later. The sun already did so, at any rate."

Confusion clouds my mind. I cannot feel, cannot think. My father? Brother's son? Evanzadí? But his name was - is - was Morzan, not what sounds like an elven name like that! My father was a _human_! … Wasn't he? A Forsworn Rider no less, at any rate. And if this man – this _elf_ – is indeed my relative, however absurd the idea is, then why did he leave me in the tender mercies of strangers who just wished to villify or suck up to me for _fifteen years_? And where are my escorts? Now that I look around, free of the spell of the ascending sun, I can find nobody but the two of us. Have they …? But did they not…?

"Peace, Amú." The soft-spoken words once more penetrate the silence between us, as the same hand once more directs my gaze by way of my chin, now making me look at my previously-unknown, _self-proclaimed_ great-uncle. Bitterness punches up my chest, my throat, my mouth, from the depth of my guts.

 _Previously unknown_ , and he found quite a _good_ moment to introduce himself.

I open my mouth, ready with a scathing rebuttal to his claim. But he beats me to the chance.

"Peace, Amú," he reiterates, then continues, with a shadow of what might be sorrow veiling his brilliance deeper, as though the sun in an overcast morning, "I deserve your bitterness, in part, and would love to remedy it to my best ability if you would let me. But there was a reason why I _could not_ touch you after your father was no longer there to protect you."

He looks even grimmer now, as if the death of my father or my subsequent state as an orphan still grieves him, but still he speaks, now bidding me by hand-gesture alone to sit opposite him on the springy grass, which I obey reluctantly. "I shall not force you to stay here, or wherever within this realm, if you would rather go back among the humans. But firstly please let me, your aunt, and your grandmother Ila know you a little more, at least, as your father refused to let us care for you from the beginning, and we saw you only once before this."

It feels too much like a pacification to me, in my current state. But…

The green eyes are completely veiled now, dim, as if lifeless. And strangely, foolishly, I wish they were as bright and daunting as before, as lively and powerful as the morning sun.

"If you would rather go now, I shall escort you personally to the edge of the forest and see to your safety."

The offer seems to feel painful to him, though sincere, with the odd note in his lowered voice. I despise him for it, for trapping me in my conscience not to spite at his current courtesy with the abandonment that he treated me with. But then, he continues, with an odder note that I heard Yaela used once to describe the painting of my father as a child that she shoved into my view, "We never meant to abandon you. Circumstances conspired against us. But we would do anything to get you away from harm." He motions at my chest, underneath which a necklace of leather cords and odd dull-grey stone pendant lies, one of the very few gifts Ré'a ever gifted me with.

"The necklace was Evanzadí's, there is no doubt about it, but we added something to it. It would alert us if the stone ever came in contact with your blood. It did, for Andí, but we came too late."

He looks away, to the still-rising sun, but I already glimpse a strange watery glimmer to his eyes.

Wrenching pain replaces the bitterness almost fully in my gut, in my chest, in my throat, in my mouth, just in an instant.

 _`"But we came too late."`_

Ré'a.

He is dead.

He could have been alive _if only_ things were _slightly_ different, from this man's own confession.

But would I wish him alive?

Would I let myself be tormented by his strange, unpredictable moods?

But, if I wish him dead, why am I feeling so much pain, just because of the empty chance spoken by a total stranger?

A total stranger though, truly?

Inevitably, my eyes slide up and down the man's posture, judging, assessing, even as he determinately looks at the sun instead of at me.

And just as inevitably, my gaze is caught by the shade of dark green that dominates his garb, from his tunic down to his trousers down to his cloth boots.

I know that shade very well, craved it when I was small, even as I feared the one who used to like wearing it so much.

My father was always a walking irony.

Even now, more than fifteen years later and in his absence, he manages to still be ironic in my view.

But I do crave that shade of dark green so much: the colour that permeated my view as I curled up silently, snugly, listening to the sound of heartbeats and breathing, smelling the scent of damp pine needles; the colour that enveloped me when I wished to eat or drink, when I wished to sleep, when I wished to just be held.

I look away as well, furiously trying to blink back the welling-up tears in my eyes.


	7. Mirror Image

Inheritance  
By Virodeil

Chapter 7: Mirror Image

There are many religions in the land; hence, there are various interpretations of "heaven" and "hell" bandied about, all throughout my formative years and in my later travels.

But personally, this place might be the closest I get to what some people whistfully term "heaven on earth."

A cordial greeting nod here, a welcoming small smile there, a hopeful twinkle of a frank stare on passing, not to mention gently-murmured greeting phrases in the old elven tongue that I am beginning to be dangerously accustomed to. And all directed at _me_ , not my self-proclaimed kin ambling languidly at my side.

Oh, they do not forget him, not by a long-shot; although, for such a powerful man, he could curiously blend in with the masses. Their respectful – if warm – greetings directed to him makes me think that he is one of the leaders in this community.

But still, amidst this piece of heaven, the way that I receive a smidgen of that respect makes me a little bemused, wary, even a little afraid.

Who am I to them, aside from the man's claim on the past I never knew?

The curious question makes me contented to linger outside among the odd tree-shaped houses and half-hidden paths, to bask in the unassuming acceptance and homy welcome a little bit longer; but sheer discomfort at the novelty of it sparks relief in my heart when at last my latest escort leads me into a large house, shaped by a few adjoining ancient leafy trees, and seats me down in what seems to be a surprisingly-informal sitting-room right behind the front door.

Knowing green eyes study me with lurking sadness from the opposite direction for a while, and I return the stare just as silently, if not calmly. Hooded by the shadows inside the windowless room, I can easily forget that those eyes blazed with life and power only moments ago, in that small clearing.

And then, at last, with a wry, bittersweet smile, he murmurs, "Now I can see why they accepted you so readily, despite the lack of announcement."

I blink, confused.

"You are not so different from your father, child, despite your features and physique," he continues, before I can open my mouth to ask. Then, perhaps noting my affronted look, he gives me a lightly-censuring gaze and adds, "Whatever preconceived notions you have had among the humans, Amú, remember that you are now among the elves, and we – many of us, if not all – have a much more favourable attitude towards your father."

I am… puzzled. But this time, my look alone does not incite explanation from the man, unfortunately, as he seems to be deep in thought, so I am forced to ask, "Who was he?"

A pained look flits past his eyes, so quickly that I would not catch it if I were not already on the lookouts for any subtle response from him. But before I can apologise, he speaks.

"A loving boy, if silent, much like you. Andar – my elder brother, Evandar – came across him when he was seven years old, away from his adoptive family. The humans feared his oddities, the elves rejected him for those, but he still managed to ensnare the heart of many, even at such a young age, or maybe because of that. Andar loved him for those, and more, and so did I."

A thoughtful pause, in which those green eyes become even more distant, then: "His birth parents tossed him aside like contaminating garbage, but he was picked up and cherished by many in turn, though it was a process spanning decades and through various accidental happenstance. He was loyal to those he deemed his kin; but in the end, unfortunately, that trait was also the one that got him into the man that you knew."

 _Loyal to those he deemed his kin._

I swallow drily.

Eragon.

I was loyal to that boy, despite all reasons advising me otherwise, but what did I get in the end?

 _But in the end, unfortunately, that trait was also the one that got him into the man that you knew._

Ré'a.

The aforementioned boy ended up as the harsh, erratic, empty person that behaved like the caricature of a father to me.

Was I going to be the caricature of a brother, a friend, a comrade to Eragon, if the elves never came to rescue me?

I swallow again.

"I," I begin, but quickly stop, realising how croaky my voice is. The problem can be remedied with some throat-clearing, maybe, but the throat itself is not compromising right now, sealed tight with a lumpful of emotions I cannot name.

It is exacerbated by how the man is regarding me so _knowingly_ , so _lovingly_. He has no right to transfer whatever he is feeling to me! I am not my father! I am glad that I am being accepted here, wherever this is, but if they accept me with open arms _not_ because of _me_ alone–!

A quirk of eyebrows, a sad smile, a sigh. "You are _not_ Andí, I know that perfectly, child. But have you ever thought that Andí could sire a child in whom he would live on, and we would like to be with the child just as much as we do the father?"

There are _many_ statements barely hidden under those loaded words, I can practically _feel_ it, and the softly-rebuking tone alone causes my cheeks to heat up a little, but I cannot stop now to analyse any of those feelings, not when he has provided me with an opening.

"Who was he, then, if _you_ even hope he would live on in me?"

The sharp query, just as loaded with emotions and a desperate challenge to boot, hissed through my clenched teeth, is unexpectedly answered by a chuckle.

Tinkling, beautiful even, in an unearthly sort of way, but dark, mirthless.

My hair stands on end. More than ever, I wish my sword were with me now, as puny for defence as it is against an elf. But still, I shall not take back my words.

"Your father's son, indeed," he breathes, just loud enough to be audible to me. The green irises of his eyes has grown darker, like the colour of rain-sodden pine-needles, and I strongly doubt that the shadows in this room play a part in it.

I tense up.

I am totally sure that the colour change is caused by the total opposite of pride and happiness, and that _I_ am the catalyst to that, just as sure that I am almost totally helpless should he decide to–

"Peace, Amú." A raised hand. Nonthreatening. I relax a little.

The wry look again, tempering down the hardened features into something approaching the former benevalent composure, though his eyes remain ominously darkened.

But he does not waste his breath nor his time with meaningless platitudes, as if he knows that nothing save the currently-unreachable reality will soothe me. My father's son, indeed!

Instead, he ploughs on, and I can only sit agape, listening.

"Evandar was the king of the elves for five hundred years. He lost his life trying to save one whom he considered his firstborn son, who followed him into death anyway a mere eighty-five years later."

Evandar.

Firstborn son.

My father's father.

My father.

That makes me…?

The green in those eyes, unexpectedly, lightens a little. "That is," he smiles grimly, "one of the reasons why you are safe here regardless of anybody's personal opinions on your presence, and why we would rather you stay here where it is safer than it is in the rest of the land. Andar was a beloved leader, and people greatly respect his sacrifice for your father, the greatest sacrifice a father could make, vain though it was in the end. They are not going to let the sacrifice scorned further by letting you die."

Another, deeper sigh, as if he were preparing to plunge into an icy lake, then: "The most important reason, however, is _not_ that. We hoped that, by your presence alone, Andar's mate, the Queen, might be drawn out of her grief. Arya – Andí's younger sister – was lost to us three seasons ago; and weeks ago you, Andí's son, the last of him left to us, resurfaced, but in an alarming state. It… broke her."

The sheer load of staggering, incomprehensible information sends me reeling inwardly, turns me numb from inside.

The… _Queen_? And _I_? What does she want with me? Who am I to her, to have such an impact? I never even knew precisely about the presence of elves in Alagaësia, nor my father's past in relation to them.

But…

 _Your father's son, indeed._

Indeed, my father's son.

I wanted to break away from his image, either "slaughterer" or "second-in-command to the kingdom," and got this instead…


End file.
